


there'll be paperwork

by Setkia



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Good Place (TV) Fusion, Aziraphale Ends Up in Hell By Accident, Crowley is the Worst and Best Demon, M/M, Moral Philosophy is Actually Very Interesting, Pining, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, the ineffable plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: "Where exactly am I?”“Hell.”“Am I … dead?”“‘fraid so,” says Crowley and finds to his surprise he means it.An amnesiac with a Heavenly aura ends up in Hell, and Crowley is fascinated.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a plan for this story that's hard to explain without spoilers in the tags, so ... sorry that they're kinda vague as fuck.  
> Rating MAY change.  
> But let me just explain how this works:  
> Hell (AKA the Bad Place) is split into sections for different tortures, and is sort of like Dante's Inferno. Crowley's office is a neutral zone. The point system from the Good Place still exists, but I just ... I dunno. I just thought it'd be a great idea and then I got really excited and it ran away from me. It's not PERFECTLY planned out, but I'm working on it and super excited because I love my ineffable idiots.

There’s a knock on Crowley’s door.

Well, to be perfectly honest, it’s not so much _his_ door, or a door at all, since architecture is weird in the Bad Place, but in the approximate location one would designate the unreal concept of “door” to the office of the demon Crowley, there is a light tapping.

Something’s wrong.

No one in Hell knocks. Not unless it’s some lost, recently deceased soul, and Crowley has taken measures since the last time that happened (which is to say, his door is now completely invisible to the human mind, and the demon mind on days he doesn't want to be bothered— which is most days).

“Erm … hello?”

A voice.

And a rather pleasant one.

Something is _definitely_ wrong.

“Is anybody in there?”

Crowley slithers his way to the door, smelling the air.

The Soul standing outside his door is not Tainted.

“Er, I don’t mean to be rude, but could someone let me in?”

Crowley wraps his hand around the handle of the door, body tense and rigid as a bowstring.

The knocking starts up again.

In a single, smooth, gesture, Crowley pulls the door open and the knocking stops immediately.

“Oh, thank you, I was getting worried I was talking to thin air— and it appears I still am.”

Crowley stares from his spot behind his door, cranes his neck.

There’s a man standing in his office.

He’s wearing pastel colours, and _tartan_. And he doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed by it.

He closes the door as quietly as he can, and straightens himself against it.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The light haired man turns at the sound of his voice and jumps, ever so slightly. He’s got eyes that remind Crowley of the sky, in those first days of the Garden. His memory of Eden is blurry, but that sky is unforgettable.

“Sorry?”

“You should be.”

“No, I meant, I don’t understand. And also, apologies for banging on your door.”

_You call that banging?_

“I just, it appears I’ve lost my way? Where exactly am I?”

Crowley tilts his head, and takes in the man properly. He’s fidgeting with his hands, nervous and out of place, but he’s not scared. Odd.

“Hell.”

The man’s mouth turns into an O shape.

“Am I … dead?”

“‘fraid so,” says Crowley and finds to his surprise he means it.

“Oh. How … how did I …?”

“Dunno,” Crowley shrugs. “Doesn’t matter how, does it? Still ended up here.” But it’s _wrong_ , because everything about the man _screams_ Heavenly. He’s no expert, and he certainly doesn’t keep track of those stupid points God seems to think are so important, but this man’s score must be beyond positive.

“Right then … erm … and you? Are you dead?”

“That would require being alive in the first place,” Crowley drawls demurely.

The man tilts his head, confused. “If you’re not dead, what are you?”

Crowley crosses his arms, and casually leans against the door. “Take a guess.”

“I …” The man frowns. “Are you … You can’t be …”

Crowley raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Can’t be what?”

“A … a demon?”

“Got it in one, you are a smart cookie!”

Crowley pushes himself off the door and saunters over to his desk.

“But you don’t look very—”

“Demonic?” Crowley finishes. “That’s because humans always get shit wrong. Though, I could make myself more monstrous if you’d prefer.” He’s grown rather attached to this figure, with his red hair and sharp cheekbones. The slim body and long fingers make others underestimate him, often giving him the upper hand in first encounters.

The man standing in his office contrasts greatly with the decor of the place. The air feels _wrong_.

“What’s your name?”

“Mine?”

“Do you see anyone else around here?”

“Uh …”

Crowley tilts his head. “You don’t know it, do you?”

“Erm …”

 _Interesting_. Amnesia isn’t exactly uncommon to those who wake up in the Bad Place, but not even remembering their own identity?

Crowley leans back in his throne, drumming his fingers on its armrest. “Alright. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Huh?”

“You’re staying here.”

“In Hell?”

“In my office. For the time being, at least.”

“Wait a minute, I don’t even know who you are—“

“Name’s Crowley, nice to meet you,” he says dryly. “Not gonna shake your hand, I’m not about that. No, you’re staying here.”

“I was just trying to find some directions—”

“You’re in Hell, there is no direction. You’re one lucky bastard, walking into _my_ office. Hastur and Ligur would’ve eaten you up. I’m feeling particularly bored today, so I’ve got a proposition for you. An Arrangement, of sorts.

“The moment you walk out that door, the rest of Hell will eat you _alive_. Again. Upper Office has fucked up, and until that’s rectified, you’re stuck in the Bad Place. Quite frankly, the only safe place for you here happens to my office, and I’m feeling uncharacteristically … _nice_. So I’ll let you stay here, and keep you safe from Beelzebub. In return, you’re gonna keep me company.”

“Company?”

“Running the Bad Place can get awfully lonely, Angel.”

“Angel?”

“You don’t know your name, so I gave you one. Got any complaints?”

Angel blinks.

“Perfect. We have a deal?”

Angel nods.

Crowley licks his lips.

_This ought to be interesting._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You just have to accept that somethings are indescribable, they’re not meant to be understood. They’re ….”
> 
> “Ineffable?”
> 
> Crowley leans back in his chair and kicks his legs up on the table. “Ineffable,” he echoes. “Yeah, I like that. Some things are ineffable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my ADHD is picking up and it's decided this fic is my shit. I've been trying to work on my other stuff (Star Trek, Haikyuu, all my stuff) but my hyper-fixation has chosen this, and honestly, I love Crowley and Aziraphale so it's not that bad. They're the perfect ship, pining, slow burn, idiot gays. I've always wanted to write a really great, long story for these two and while it's not the one I thought I'd do, I'm very excited about it.  
> Chapter length will vary, I'm just ending chapters where I feel they should end. Comments are wonderful, if you have the time to leave some.

Huh. He’s dead.

Surprisingly, he’s not that alarmed by this fact. He’s not even horribly alarmed that he’s in Hell. Realistically, these two mysteries should be his top priority, but all he can do is stare at the two biggest mysteries that currently hold his interest.

The first mystery, is the room. It’s _changing_. The walls extend. The floor contorts. The furniture remains stationary as Crowley continues speaking while laying horizontally in his ornate chair, his long legs extending over the armrest.

The second mystery, the most intriguing mystery, is the demon itself.

Who is speaking rather rapidly, and gesticulating wildly.

“What …. is happening?”

“I could try to explain it to you, but I doubt you’ll get it.”

“Try me.”

“Alright.” Crowley sits up straighter in his chair, and lays his elbows on the dark desk in front of him. “You’re in the dot of the i.”

“The what?”

“The dot of the i. In Jeremy Bearimy. Which, quite frankly, is a thing that doesn’t make sense to mortal brains and barely makes sense to occult beings, so how about I save you the time? Based on your accent, I’ll say you’re English. _Very_ English. So you know the blue box? That famous blue box you guys are really obsessed over?”

“Um …”

“TARDIS! That’s it, that’s the stupid name you had for it. The dot in the i is a lot like the TARDIS. It’s nowhere, and everywhere in time. Got it? Doesn’t matter, you just have to accept that somethings are indescribable, they’re not meant to be understood. They’re ….”

“Ineffable?”

Crowley leans back in his chair and kicks his legs up on the table. “Ineffable,” he echoes. “Yeah, I like that. Some things are ineffable. Anyway, angel, talk to me. Preferably about you, if you can.”

Though the light haired man knows he’s not named Angel, there’s something about it that feels familiar. “I don’t know anything.”

“Not true.”

“But—Wow!”

Suddenly there’s a globe in his hands, caught right before it strikes him in the face.

The demon grins. It’s not demonic. Not evil, not dangerous, just … amused. “See? Motor skills are fully operational. You could be a limp vegetable, but you’re not. Some people end up here, and they’re paralyzed for the first few decades.”

The demon is speaking very quickly, gesticulating wildly, and the strangest thing is that Angel knows exactly what he’s saying. If he stops to think about it, his words become incomprehensible, but if he just lets the words wash over him, it’s as though nothing is odd at all.

Despite the backdrop of Hell.

And his apparent status of being not-alive.

“What do you remember? If anything, at all.”

Angel thinks hard.

“Sushi tastes magnificent.”

The demon blinks.

And then he laughs.

Angel isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting a demon’s laugh to sound like, but it’s not what he hears. Everything about demons he knows, (which he finds is alarming a lot) is that they are evil, cunning, sly, vile. An entire thesaurus could be filled with the negative adjectives one could use to describe the occult.

The laugh does not sound evil.

It sounds … light. Free. It starts in his chest and moves up his throat, and his legs shake slightly.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are an odd one, aren’t you, angel?”

“I don’t …” Angel scrunches up his face, trying to think. “The Library of Alexandria was beautiful.”

Crowley’s laughter abruptly stops, as though he’s stopped breathing. Do demons need to breathe?

“Victor Hugo enjoyed writing in the nude. Benjamin Franklin enjoyed orgies in France. The Leaning Tower of Pisa only began to lean in 1173. Michelangelo hated the Pope. Aristotle despised Alexander the Great. The Mona Lisa is Leonardo’s least favourite piece. The wingspan of the wandering Albatros is almost 12 feet. An icosahedron is the name of a twenty-sided object. The front of Plato’s Academy had a sign which read “let no one ignorant of—”

“Geometry enter,” Crowley finishes. “You’re quite a bookworm, aren’t you? Well, were. Since you’re dead and all.”

“Right …”

Back to that again. Though, he doesn’t _feel_ dead. He’s not sure if you’re supposed to be able to feel anything when you’re deceased. He’s never put much thought into what happens after death, but he knows, intrinsically, this does not match whatever non-existent thought he had.

“You’re ineffable.” Crowley tilts his head. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”

 _You’re ineffable_ , Angel wants to reply.

He’s been in the demon’s presence for an unknown amount of time (because time is an illusion and though he feels as though it is passing, it’s more of a concept than anything), but he knows more about the demon than he knows about himself.

He has no reference point for what a demon should be, but he can tell Crowley is one unconventional occult being.

There’s a pull he feels towards him, and perhaps he can use him to discover his own past, whatever it may be. There’s something familiar about the red hair, the sunglasses … something hauntingly familiar. Perhaps it’s from his life on the surface?

From a Kantian perspective, he can’t _use_ Crowley. That would disregard his own autonomy. How Angel knows Kantian ethics, yet can’t recall his own name is a fascinating question, but he finds himself more fascinated by the demon who is readjusting a portrait of the Mona Lisa.

There’s something about Crowley that seems so very … _alive_.

Even if he _does_ use Crowley as a stepping stone to his own memory recovery, he doubts he could ever forget about the autonomy Crowley exhibits in the way he saunters around the space and takes the globe from Angel’s hands.

“Let’s get started, shall we? See if we can narrow your origins down from just British.”

 _Yes indeed_ , Angel thinks, watching as the demon lets the globe hover in the room. _Let’s begin._


End file.
